


Dulce et Decorum Est

by aeoleus



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Gen, M/M, Military, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 13:37:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8058424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeoleus/pseuds/aeoleus
Summary: On a sweltering day in the middle of a South Carolina rice field, John Laurens was killed by British forces. But even as a bullet with his name etched into it was speeding towards him, John's thoughts are up in the east coast, up where everyone he loves is.





	

There's a loose floorboard underneath John's cot. Stacks of letters, neatly bound with scraps of string, are stuffed beneath.

There are several letters that barely fit in their envelopes, so full of the flowing, bright script of their owner. Words of hidden affection and stolen love, pushed deep to the bottom, under a mask of stoic brotherhood. These are always signed _yrs for ever, A. Hamilton._

There are cheerful letters written in fractured English, littered with French phrases, detailing what John is missing at base camp from Lafayette.

There are letters, written in a careful hand, each word picked to avoid suspicion, nostalgic and subtly regretful, from Francis in Geneva.

There are short and formulaic letters from Martha in London, never more than half a page long.

There are letters from his siblings, some written with ink splotches and spelling errors galore, sometimes accompanied by sketches of the dog.

John cherishes these. He reads them so often the edges have begun to wear out. He keeps one in his breast pocket, where it has begun to tear, the paper disintegrating against the rough fabric.

But there is a different pile, shoved haphazardly beneath. It is written on expensively thick parchment, in the darkest ink, marked with that familiar seal. Poison flowed from his father's pen couched in love, in flowery apologies that masked horrible ultimatums, threats veiled behind cheerful anecdotes.

  
And John's responses. Yet to be sent. He has started and thrown out so many letters- to Alexander, to Martha, to his father. None sound right. None seem right. He knows in a few weeks, an indignant letter will arrive from the North, filled with demands as to why John has not written Alexander back yet. He knows that his father's letters will get more passive aggressive, Martha's even shorter.

But John would rather say nothing than the wrong thing.

Even now, as he's just about ready fall off of the horse he's borrowed, marching endlessly across these South Carolinian fields, John wonders what to say. He's so entrenched in his sweat and his thoughts that he doesn't hear the first shot ring out. It's not until his horse bucks up, screeching in pain, and then collapses under him, dead from a bullet in his head, that John understands what's about to happen. What must happen. He scrambles up, patting his chest just to make sure the letters are secure against his jacket, and reaches for his gun.

The men around him are being overrun by weary looking soldiers in raggedy red uniforms. The rice fields beyond them burn. The smoke curls up into the sky.

There's a hoarse scream behind him, and John whips around, loading his gun, to find himself face to face with a redcoat with a wild grin on his face. He's taller than John, but at least several years younger. His skin is still pockmarked with signs of adolescence, and his hands are shaking as he stares at John's epaulets- unmistakable signs of his status as an officer.

For several seconds, they just stare at each other. John's gun is slack in his hands, sweat building on his palms. His eyes dart at John, and at the chaos happening around them. Something finally snaps, and the man lets out a primal screams and charges at John.

It happens so fast. There's a shot above his head, some fumbling of hands, and all the air is pushed out of John's lungs.

The world's spinning around him- is he on the ground? The man is kneeling above him. He pulls at something from John's chest. It glints in the hot sun. The man gives him one last glance ( though John can't tell which head he gives it from. He has two, now.) and leaves John on the ground.

Breathing is getting harder. The sun is beating down on his face, and his lungs are dusty. His mouth tastes like metal. John feels his chest and his hand comes away covered red. His jacket is sliced open. The letter is torn through the middle, John's sure, and with it, John's affection.

Everything's growing dimmer. He can't really hear the sounds of the battle raging around him, nor see the clouds above him moving to cover the sun. He thinks of the stack of parchment beneath his cot, waiting to be filled with words and sent. He thinks of the people they're supposed to be sent to. He thinks of a dusty tavern in New York, where he's gotten drunk more times than he cares to remember. Of Lafayette on one side of him, Alexander on the other. The endless toasts to life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness. To the budding country and to valor and glory. He supposes this is what they're toasting to.

It's night now, surely. He's so tired. His lungs are filled with dirt and blood. John takes one last breath and closes his eyes.

 

_Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori_

How sweet and honorable it is to die for one's country. 


End file.
